


A Time to Every Purpose (Under Heaven)

by ReaperWriter



Series: Mansion House Nocturnes [2]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: 19th century mores, Backstory, Better to have loved and lost, Civil War, F/M, Hope, Mary POV, Phoster, character introspection, second attachments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She realized that this wholly unexpected affection she has for him, this respect and admiration, this kind regard, had become something much more.  More potent, more dangerous, more soul shaking</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time to Every Purpose (Under Heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to my Jed introspection, In All My Dreams (I Drown). Because Mary deserved to have her say.

Mary Phinney didn’t care for brash men.  Perhaps it was her staunchly New England upbringing, or her devotion to transcendentalism and moral contemplation.  Perhaps it was seeing women that she knew who gambled their security on charming, arrogant, confident men and lost when their schemes in life failed, or they abandoned their responsibilities, or they fell into drink and other debauchery.   

No, Mary Phinney didn’t care for brash men in the slightest, and had become comfortable with the life of a confirmed maiden aunt, employed genteelly as a designer of fabric patterns when she met Gustav.  Life in the Manchester Mills community provided a sort of comfortable comradery and plenty of chaperones, and so it was a quiet fall evening in the drawing room of the company boarding house when the new chemist in the dye-house joined a mixed party for cards and other pursuits.   

Gustav struck her not because he was brash, but because he was the opposite of it.  He was a quiet man, unobtrusive, tending to sit in the corner with a copy of Goethe in his native language and observe rather than joining in.  Mary found she had a good view of him from where she sat at the piano, turning pages for Lavinia Benson as she played some ridiculous Scottish air.  He appeared to be reading, but he was also observing the rest of the room with a look of shrewd contemplation, and only when his eye caught hers did his mouth turn up in a small smile. 

She sought him out that second evening he joined them, receiving an introduction from the house matron and sitting as close to him as propriety allowed, she addressed him in formal, school girl German.  And his eyes had sparkled brightly at her, though he kept his responses, also in German, slow and measured so she might understand.  And they had talked of Goethe, and then Longfellow and Keats.  In fact, so consumed by their conversation were they, they only realized the hour when Mrs. Topher quietly cleared her throat. 

They took to walking together to the Methodist church in town, though his own people had been Lutheran.  He spoke of how his title seemed rather silly here in America, where back home Barons were as common as ten-penny nails.  Of his university education, and how, when his father had passed on, he was forced to confront debts that meant he had to sell what was left of the family’s estate.  In turn, she told him of the farm she had grown up on, sold after her own father died.  Of the legal practice her father had run as much on the principles of justice and good form than actual client ability to pay, and the one her brother ran much better in Boston.  Of how she had quite accepted her lot in life, and with very careful economy, she could live independently and honorably and not be wholly dependent on her brother for support. 

She came to love him through the winter evenings, spent in their little corner of the parlor, talking quietly, or not at all.  Sometimes reading together, or playing chess.  Sometimes with Gustav improving her German, and sometimes with her improving her English.  But he said nothing of his own heart, only that she made him feel less a stranger in a strange land. 

She came to speak of her love to him one day in early spring, as the first crocuses and daffodils pushed past smile piles of late snow.  They walked back from the service, missal in her hand, her arm tucked into his.  She did not know what prompted her to be bold, when it is not a quality she admired.  Perhaps it was the way she had caught him looking at her across the mill yard with a sad wistfulness.  Perhaps it was how warm his arm felt through her glove, or the way he’d lean toward her in their evening talks.  Perhaps it was the way she wondered what it might feel like to press her lips to his.  “Did you never think to marry, Baron von Olnhausen?” 

He stopped immediately, and turned, finding her eyes.  He was almost 8 years her senior, and if she was confirmed an old maid, he was surely a confirmed bachelor.  “I confess, Miss Phinney, that when I was very young, I hoped to find a woman with whom to make my life.”  And there again was that same wistful sadness.  “But the reality of my financial situation meant I could not hope to support such a one in the style of a German Baroness.  Best not to make promises I could not keep.” 

“And what…” And oh, here she became very bold indeed.  “What about one who would rather be a helpmate and partner, in the New England style, then a Baroness?  Could you see yourself wed to such a one as she, who through careful economy of both of your livings could make a small but happy home with you?” 

Gustav had looked at her, eyes bright with astonishment and wonder and joy.  “Such a one as her, Miss Phinney, I would joyfully make my wife.”  And then he took her hand, looking at her with such hope.  “If she would…if you would have me?” 

They married, as they did most things, quietly, and moved quietly into the little house rented by the Mill for married couples.  They worked long hours and Mary was able to pay a pittance to another woman to do their cooking for the evening meal, and they were poor, if ridiculously titled.  Poor, but happy.  And very much in love. 

And then Gustav got sick, like he did most things, quietly.  It was only with the help of her brother that they could afford to come to Boston, to seek out better doctors, to live in a small wing of his home as she nursed the man she loved.  Day and night, long hours until she thought she’d break of it, until that faithful day she had run out to the chemist for more laudanum, and returned to find Gustav’s handsome face eased of pain, his eyes closed, and his chest stilled.  He had died, quietly, like he did so much else. 

She had thought to return to the Mill and seek her old position back, had her brother’s children not caught Scarlet Fever, had she not nursed them through it tenderly while their own mother was sent away as a precaution.  Mary and Edward had both had it as children, Eleanor had not.  In those long hours, in her widow’s black, with her ridiculous title, she thought of Gustav.  Of his smiled, of his voice, of his touch in the night when they lay curled up to sleep together.  And it was only when Ned, dear, sweet Ned, had pointed out how good she was at it, as his children recovered, that she realized nursing was the legacy Gustav had left her.  Gustav had loved her for her own quietness, but perhaps it was time to be bolder. 

So she did not particularly care for Jedediah Foster when she met him.  Oh, in truth, he was not Doctor Hale, who struck her as the worst kind of idiot.  Her grandfather had been a doctor, she was not entirely without thought on how they should be.  But oh, Dr. Foster was brash.  He was bold.  He had, she was quite certain, a God complex.  And he had clearly never before been wrong a day in his life.  Now, Dr. Foster was quite exactly the sort of man she’d always avoided.  Which obviously was impossible if this position were going to work out. 

She did not care for his clear lack of moral compass, for his excessive devotion to the science of the body and not the soul of the man, to his arrogant lack of patriotism.  She found, to her horror, that he had himself grown up a very Pharaoh, keeping men in bondage.  And he had the audacity to question her, to point out her perceived shortcomings regarding the care of their confederate inmates.  (And damnably more annoying, she found as she thought on it, he was likely right). 

She found herself comparing the men surrounding her to her Gustav and finding them all so wanting.  Hale, a vain popinjay.  Summers, who lacked the sort of authoritative control she would expect from one in his role.  Bullen….well, Bullen, she thought, might actually be the most profligate man she had ever encountered in her life.  Samuel Diggs, at least, she approved of, and wished she could do more to see him better placed.  And Squivers...well, the man at least meant well.  She thought Gustav might have liked Chaplain Hopkins, as someone to discuss philosophy with.  And the patients….well, the patients were a mixed bag. 

But of Dr. Foster, she found the hardest case.  He clearly cared for his patients, at least as far as he could mend their physical ills.  And he was a brilliant mind.  She wondered, if Gustav had been allowed half his privilege, half his resources, where might he have ended up.  _Not with you_ , the traitorous part of her heart reminded her.  After all, it was Gustav’s poverty that brought them together.  But she also remembered Gustav’s love of science.  The chemist and the doctor, if nothing else, would have much to talk about.  And so she found herself hearing Gustav’s voice, imploring her to try to grant Dr. Foster a little grace, if possible. 

She was actually finding herself, against the odds, coming to like the man a little when, of all things, she met his wife.  Or at least saw her, as Mrs. Foster clearly had neither the time nor the inclination to see what they were actually doing here at Mansion House, how important the work, how desperately needed.  In fact, Mrs. Foster didn’t seem to give a fig for what her husband might want.  And again, in her head, she remembered conversing with her kind husband about the behavior of another Mill worker.  _Remember, mien liebchen, everyone fights battles we may not be able to see_. 

She found herself feeling something startling like affection for him as she watched that struggle, when Mrs. Foster had left, only to be replaced with the man’s dowager mother and her impossible demands.  She could not imagine the stress of having her brother (kept out of the war by a childhood injury that left him with a severe limp) injured, or the emotional pain and distance of being on different sides of the conflict.  Nor could she imagine a woman more unmotherly or in denial than the elder Mrs. Foster.  Even when it was clear to her that Dr. Foster was faltering, she did her best to be a helpmate, rather than a hindrance. 

She found her heart broken for him when she found him on the floor of his room, laying in the mess of broken glass and shattered spirits.  She had seen men give in to debauchery for many, many reasons, but this one…that he had chosen to experiment on himself to try to…well, to find better treatments for his patients.  It had been foolish and reckless and also damnably brave. And again, in the back of her mind, she could hear Gustav. _Are we not to help where we can, mien liebchen?_  

She forgave him his behavior in his sick room, though it exhausted her.  Gustav had born an illness as discomforting, if not more, with almost no complaint.  Instead, Dr. Foster was by turns whiney, whingeing, and insulting. He tries my patience, Gustav, she thought.  This man was everything she had never wanted to be responsible for and now was.  And she was entirely puzzled by how strongly it made her want to react.  Instead, she bit her tongue and kept on. 

Aurelia changed everything.  He was stubborn and brash and oh so bold, but God, so brilliant.  Even if it was Mr. Diggs hands doing the work, it was Jed’s mind finding the solution.  Jed’s beautiful, brash, brilliant mind that saved the woman’s life.  And after, in the moment when he had held out the morphine to her, untouched, she had felt so many things- wonder, joy, pride.  And something else that was familiar and not at the same time. 

After that night, it was as though everything had changed.  Where Dr. Foster had been an obstacle, he now became a partner, a helpmate, a voice of sanity in the sort of insane world she is almost thankful Gustav- gentle, kind, loving Gustav- didn’t live to see.  There was a humility to Dr. Foster…to Jedediah…to Jed.  He was still brash and bold, fighting Hale and Hastings for the good of the hospital and their patients.  Dealing with the Inspector General.  Handling amputations and picking fights with Bullen.  But he was also careful to ask her opinion now.  To seek her out, when it all gets a bit too much.  He called her Mary, and it’s been so long since anyone not related to her called her that.  Not Nurse Mary, not Miss Phinney.  Mary, plain and simple. 

She realized that this wholly unexpected affection she has for him, this respect and admiration, this kind regard, had become something much more.  More potent, more dangerous, more soul shaking.  She sat at the bed of a man people should, but all accounts, despise.  A shirker, a coward.  But what she saw, what Mary saw, was a husband so very, very desperate to see his wife again, to protect her and honor her as he had vowed.  And she remembered Gustav, fighting as hard as his disease ridden body would allow to try to recover, to come back to her and their life and the promises he had made to her that he so desperately didn’t wish to break. 

She sat with the man, held his hand, as everyone else moved to greet the President, to see and be seen, and she told him his wife was coming, that she was there, that she loved him and she was proud.  That’s she was present, at the end, as she couldn’t be for Gustav.  As she'd never forgive herself for not being, for Gustav.  And Jed came, and sat by her.  It was his hand on her cheek, his fingers brushing her tears away, his gentle voice, telling her she’d done all she could.  And in her mind, one more time, she’d heard Gustav’s voice.  _You did, mien liebchen.  All you could and more.  And now, you need to let me go._  

Mary Phinney had never cared for brash men, not as she loved the one she cannot have who faced her across a body growing stiff between them as the crowd outside cheered.  She was the confirmed old maid who has now loved not just one man, but two.  And in the face of that reality, of all obstacles- the war, the work, his marriage, this life, she turned as she often had to the scriptures.  _To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven._  

Now wasn’t the time, wasn’t their time.  But, maybe, she could hope that someday, it would be. 


End file.
